


A City of Dreams

by comeonlight, epherians, KazueEmiko, King_To_E8



Series: Cyberpunk: Final Fantasy Type-0 [1]
Category: Final Fantasy Type-0
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Canon-Typical Violence, Drugs, F/F, Gen, Heavy Drinking, Minor Character Death, Multi, One Shot Collection, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Poison, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:54:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24248401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comeonlight/pseuds/comeonlight, https://archiveofourown.org/users/epherians/pseuds/epherians, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KazueEmiko/pseuds/KazueEmiko, https://archiveofourown.org/users/King_To_E8/pseuds/King_To_E8
Summary: Cyberpunk 2077 AU: A series of one shots glimpsing into the lives of certain Night City residents.
Relationships: Caetuna/Emina Hanaharu, Deuce (Final Fantasy Type-0)/Rem Tokimiya
Series: Cyberpunk: Final Fantasy Type-0 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1752391
Comments: 17
Kudos: 6





	1. Routine (Naghi Minatsuchi)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just an ordinary day in Night City for Naghi Minatsuchi.

There’s something funny about the way the human mind interacts with the world. It editorializes, picking which sensory details get priority and which do not. For example, Naghi’s brain had deprioritized temperature at the moment. It may have been a frigid winter night (and it was, as the temperature sensors in his implants could verify), but that fact could not have been further from his mind. What did get priority was his checklist. He ran through it now as he approached the club’s stage door, its component parts long since memorized—for what else could one expect from a performer worthy of everyone’s adoration such as he? Indeed, although he did not make a sound, and although the seldom-repaired streetlights to his back failed to illuminate his face, an astute observer might have noticed that his lips were moving, as though intoning a chant. This chant, however, stopped when he reached his destination, as he took a moment to compose himself before flinging wide the door with a gleeful smile. 

“Hello everyone, how are we tonight?” he asked, receiving the same tired “Hello”s and “Hey”s as always, not a single one of which diminished his vibrant, bubbly swagger as he made his way to his station and began undressing. Although the club bordered on the entertainment district (or belonged to the entertainment district, depending on whether you were talking about the front door or the back) its business was generally agreed to be seedy, and as such it didn’t warrant the same luxuries as its ostensibly more respectable neighbors. This included things like separate dressing rooms, and as such, everyone changed in front of everyone else at the  _ Siren’s Tear _ . 

Of course, it also included things like a house band and instruments, and so “everyone” worked out to be around seven people: one assistant stage manager, three performers, two dressers, and a security guard. Ryid’s job description technically read “front-of-house security”, but before opening the dangers were greater backstage—nobody was likely to try any funny business on an empty room. If nothing else, his bulk practically barricaded the door, although Naghi had seen him deal with enough crazed fanboys to know that he could handle himself. With his shirt already on, Naghi moved on to the pants, marveling idly at how closely the rumples in the shirt as he tucked it in resembled the scars which traversed his back. He always put the shirt on first—polite and professional as his co-workers were, scars like his told a story, and nobody could see them without getting at least a little curious. That kind of curiosity, Naghi knew, bred proximity—and proximity was best avoided, he reminded himself. Next the gloves, going first on his right hand—the augmetic—and finishing with the more nimble, organic left. He flexed each to make sure the fit was right. Comfort was an important factor in the construction of a performance, all the more so when certain…flourishes were expected. Jacket, tie, and makeup went as always—fold the bow and tuck it in, just enough red on the lips to draw attention, highlights, shadows, and middle button. 

As always, Aki came back to check with the performers before the show—given that all backing music was automated, it was her job as stage manager to put the right songs into the system before the show began. “What have you got for me tonight, Naghi?” “One of the classics,” Naghi responded. Aki laughed when she heard the name. “An oldie but a goodie—very classy of you, as always,” she said, moving on down the line. A wry smile crept onto Naghi’s face. Like so many other things, his song choice for tonight had many meanings. Much like the  _ Siren’s Tear _ itself, there was the part that most people understood, and then there were the other parts, the backrooms and hallways that were so much dirtier and smaller than anybody would expect from the exterior. It occurred to him, and not for the first time, that this was a place of employment which suited him perfectly as an employee. But he was here to do a job, and not to philosophize, and so he fixed the smile firmly on his face and stood, beginning to work through his warm-ups and vocalizations as he made his way to “places”. Once he was alone, the checklist began again. “First verse plain, move on the second, close by ‘near’, end hook with flourish, third verse passionate escape, bow, smile, wave, get out,” he intoned under his breath. Fortunately, his “benefactors” had common sense enough to balance out their sense of humor, and had gone with something less flashy than they sometimes requested. Naghi dreaded the day when they decided to make a statement, rather than settling for a job well done, but for the moment he counted his blessings and took a deep breath. The house sounded full tonight. That was good for a few reasons: first, it meant that the  _ Siren’s Tear _ would be able to pay him at the end of the week, which was not the most reliable of occurrences in the world of small seedy clubs on the edges of red-light districts. The second reason was that a big crowd meant many witnesses, and if he did his job right that would lower the odds that anyone would so much as glance askew at this small club where he worked. And it didn’t hurt that a performance was more enjoyable with a larger audience, he supposed. What was the old phrase—“if you love what you do…”? 

The dwindling sound of the crowd brought him back to the present, and breezed through the lyrics in his mind one last time as Aki’s voice over the announce encouraged audience members to look at the clearly marked fire exits, informing them that they should leave their personal belongings out of the walkways as performers would sometimes move through the audience, and reassured them that the  _ Siren’s Tear _ was equipped with the appropriate fire sprinkler and detector systems. Naghi chuckled at the last part, as always—not a single person who worked at the  _ Tear _ had seen any sign of either of those things, and there was a 500 gil pot waiting for the first person who could provide proof of their existence (to say nothing of whether or not they functioned). Technically, the architectural documents for the  _ Tear _ corroborated the announcement, but everyone at the  _ Tear _ knew that documents were just as likely to lie as people, especially when it saved money. Naghi drew a breath and began his customary stroll onto stage, just as Aki’s speech came to its customary close: “And last but not least, I’d like you all to put your hands together for everybody’s idol, our host here at the  _ Siren’s Tear _ , and tonight’s first performer: Naghi Minatsuchi!” 

Applause was polite but scattered, as always, which suited Naghi just fine—he knew that it was his job to win the crowd over, to hold them spellbound and keep them paying for drinks so that the other acts could close out the night in relative ease. “How is everybody doing tonight?” he asked as he pretended to adjust the mic stand, scanning the array of tables before him, searching for—there. Front row, center table, just like he’d been told. He locked eyes with his target and winked, drawing giggles from the rest of the party. Humor was an easy way in—just like the mic stand. Audiences loved to imagine that their performers, like them, had come to this place to relax, rather than to work one of many jobs which barely sustained a person in the glittering parasitic void of Night City. “Well, it’s lovely to see you all here. Like you just heard, my name is Naghi Minatsuchi, and I’ll be starting you wonderful folks off with a classic little number which you may have heard before, so sit back, relax, enjoy, and don’t forget to tip your waitstaff!” he added with a jaunty smirk. It was time. He let all the tension in his body go as the simulated piano washed over him, and as he breathed in, he found his note.

_ I’ve got youu… _

_ under my skin… _

The song flowed freely from him, loose and relaxed despite his impeccably crisp diction. As he crooned, he swayed with the beat, rocking slowly back and forth in an almost hypnotic fashion. Yet this air of calm belied a series of incredibly precise calculations inside, as he scanned the crowd for their reaction and carefully placed steps that would draw him towards downstage center in preparation for the next phase. The first verse gave way to the second. Satisfied with the reactions of the audience at large, his focus narrowed to the man he’d winked at earlier, his target, gazing wistfully into his eyes as he sang.

_ But why should I try to resist when, darling, I know so well… _

_ I’ve got you… _

His feet left the stage one by one, sliding gracefully towards the man in a kind of lonesome strut as Naghi continued to sing, the mic long since separated from its stand and now, placed in the confused but willing hand of his target. If the audience wasn’t with him now, they would be shortly. While gifted as a singer, none of Naghi’s many considerable talents surpassed his skill at legerdemain, and with a sultry smile he bent low over his target, continuing to sing as he plucked the man’s handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket. Naghi had his own, of course—the  _ Siren’s Tear _ styled itself as an old-fashioned cabaret, and so the handkerchief, like the rest of the suit, made up a costume which fit that style—but the misdirection always worked better when you could find your props in the audience. Without missing a beat or a breath, Naghi covered the man’s drink with his handkerchief, producing a rose from seemingly out of nowhere as he withdrew it. 

Strictly speaking, that the handkerchief covered the glass was of little importance, but it certainly helped disguise the tablet of poison which he had slipped into the drink in the same motion. Long since dissolved, nobody could tell that anything about the drink had changed—least of all the unwitting target, in whose teeth Naghi had just placed the rose. A gift for his generous audience participant. While it might have been ironic, given the song, for Naghi to have used one of the hypodermic needles lurking in the fingertips of his right hand to deliver the poison, augmetics were expected to be weaponized or lethal, and their use often drew attention. No, this way was better—a classic song and a classic assassination, as his “benefactors” had put it. The man would pass quietly in the night, from apparently natural causes. As Naghi returned to the stage and the fading sounds of the piano were replaced with thunderous applause, his smile bore no signs of regret. It wasn’t like he had any choice, he thought. It was just another job. Yet as he left the stage door afterwards, walking the back alleys and dim streets to his small apartment, the cold was again the furthest thing from his mind, as he sang quietly to himself.

_ Don’t you know, silly fool… _

_ You never can win… _

_ Use your mentality… _

_ Wake up to reality… _

_ But each time I do, just the thought of you  _

_ Makes me stop before I begin… _

_ Cause I’ve got you under my skin… _


	2. Another Round (Caetuna/Emina)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the last of her scheduled activities for the night come to a close, Caetuna makes a trip to her favorite bar to drink it all away.

The stands are packed with cheering spectators, as always. The noise is near deafening, but Caetuna has grown quite accustomed to it. She watches the arena from a private balcony, giving her attention to the battle instead of the headache lingering in her temples. The final match of the night is between a young man with a spear, and an abomination halfway between man and monster. Judging from the bets placed, many newcomers are present. Those familiar with Night City’s underground matches know well not to judge based on appearances. The creature — a remnant being from the Great Heresy of Dracobaltia, as historians call the ancient event — bears an appearance considered horrifying by the general populace. Its sharp teeth and claws make quick work of flesh, and its ability to spout acid poses a further threat, but that is the extent of its notable abilities. Its bones are relatively brittle, and its speed is no match for that of its opponent: a warrior known as the Wyvern Prince, leaping into the air with a spear in hand.

The Prince’s landing sends a gust throughout the venue, and the spear’s pronged head cripples both of the Dracobaltian’s legs. The Dracobaltian screeches and claws at the ground in an attempt to flee. The Prince tears his spear from his opponent, only to adjust a switch on the grip that changes the head of the weapon. The prongs retract, and a blade emerges. A spatter of black blood from a deep gash across the Dracobaltian’s neck marks the end of the match.

Two hundred thousand gil richer, Caetuna rises from her seat. With the night’s matches over, she can move along with her schedule, and the next item on her list is by far her most preferred. Three flights of stairs bring her up to ground level, where nightlife is bustling as usual. The Light Rail passes overhead with nothing but a slight breeze to announce its presence, barkers shout in attempts to lure customers to their businesses, drunk flirts whistle at passersby, and trading card enthusiasts play at outdoor tables. Neon lights stretch on like an endless scene. It was a wonder waiting to be explored, long ago. Probably. Certain memories are hazy, some are gone, and others Caetuna can recall in vivid detail. It’s a simple fact of life, similar to the fact that Caetuna, like clockwork, visits her favorite bar after a night of profiting from carnage.

Heaven to Hell. It’s a modest establishment a few streets away from the busier part of town, rarely empty but never packed. At least, not upstairs where the bar is located. Many patrons come to gamble, but those games take place downstairs and the only noise to make it to the main floor are shouts from particularly heated matches. Heaven to Hell is quiet by Night City standards, the selection of drinks is decent, and the bartender is an exceedingly pleasant woman — albeit clueless in particular respects.

Caetuna takes her usual seat, swiping her finger over a hologram to pay five thousand gil. “The house special, if you please.”

The bartender, Emina, nods politely and begins to mix a drink. “Coming right up, ma’am.”

Ah, she’s in “customer service” mode. Caetuna sighs silently. Emina likely has something on her mind. But then again, everyone in this city is struggling with something.

“Here you are.” Emina sets a glass filled with a pink liquid on the bar. Strange. It’s usually red.

“You changed the proportions,” Caetuna observes. She takes a sip and immediately feels the burn of vodka in her throat. “How thoughtful.”

“You hate red, right?” Emina asks.

Now that, Caetuna did not expect. She should have; Emina is a keen observer. A small smile forms on Caetuna’s lips as she continues to drink. She takes it all in five or so gulps, then sets the glass down.

“I see why you went ahead and paid a thousand.” Emina frowns and refills Caetuna’s glass. “You should seriously watch yourself.” She’s out of “customer service” mode. Good. Sincerity is hard to come by these days.

“As I’ve stated before,” Caetuna says, lifting her glass. “You’ve no need to worry about me.” She closes her eyes and drinks without hesitation. Still she can feel Emina’s gaze on her, kind and confused. Emina is as compassionate as she is mysterious. Caetuna wishes she could say the same for herself. Yet she’s always welcome here. That’s a comfort in this life. Drinking at home hardly numbs her mind. It’s easier to quit thinking at Heaven to Hell. Quit thinking…

Caetuna drinks her third glass, making small talk as best she can. “How was your day, Emina?” Emina tends to socialize, so empty conversation would be marginally better than silence while no one else is in the bar.

Emina shrugs. “You know.” She takes a sip of water from a bottle behind the counter. “...Pretty busy this morning, I guess. Had to break up a scuffle.”

Caetuna sets down her empty glass. “Oh?”

Emina visibly hesitates before refilling Caetuna’s glass. “Yeah… Nothing crazy, though. They apologized. Average day, overall. And as you can see, it’s a slow night.” She leans forward against the counter. “So...what’s your day been like?”

Caetuna flashes a wry smirk. “There is a reason I drink so much.” With that, she takes a long sip. “...Three shots of Golden Tiger and a tall glass of absinthe, please.” She pays twelve thousand more gil without a second thought. That should be more than enough, even with the upcharge on absinthe.

Emina frowns outright. She looks at the hologram displaying Caetuna’s remaining credit, and then to Caetuna. “You say not to worry, but...how can I not? Are you sure about this?”

There it is again. That kindness. That wholehearted care. It’s far more addicting than any drink. “I’m quite certain. I know that you trust me,” Caetuna says. The words slip out; it seems the alcohol is starting to take effect. Caetuna finishes her drink as Emina prepares her next round without further protest. She considers that maybe she  _ should  _ cut back, for Emina’s peace of mind. Attempting that would likely have an adverse effect on Caetuna, however, in turn making Emina worry. A no-win situation, something familiar to everyone in Night City. No, far more than just Night City. Everyone in all of Orience.

Emina sets a full drinking glass and three full shot glasses in front of Caetuna. “I do trust you. But I can’t just change how I feel, you know.”

Caetuna takes a shot. “Mmm?” She restrains herself from asking just how exactly Emina feels.

“That alcohol is gonna hit you like a train,” Emina scolds. “How do you plan on getting home when you’re shitfaced?” It feels like they’ve had this conversation a thousand times. Maybe they have. The worst case scenarios so far have been a few occurrences of Zhuyu coming to pick Caetuna up, no later than ten minutes past closing.

Caetuna takes another shot, followed by a sip of absinthe and a sigh. “Have you read the news today? The cities of Milites and Rubrum are working toward another trade deal. What do you suppose this spells for the future?”

Emina’s frown darkens as she watches Caetuna throw back her third shot. She moves her lips as if to answer, but ultimately begins washing dishes instead. Caetuna pauses from drinking while Emina is occupied. She tips thirty thousand gil and dismisses the hologram, then resumes drinking. The alcohol is hitting now, just as Emina had said. It’s a relief more than anything. Being drunk makes it easier to be honest, and to not focus too much on anything. The responsible thing to do would be to have more sober conversations outside of the dates they sometimes go on for business — so-called. But… No, no. Bars are for drinking, not thinking. Emotions are complicated. Caetuna can introspect when she isn’t busy trying to forget...whatever it was she was drinking to forget.

“I wonder who qualifies as more clueless between the two of us,” Caetuna muses, causing Emina to glance up. “...I’d like to tell you everything, someday. I’m sorry for making you worry.” Just like that, the mild frustration on Emina’s face gives way to a tender expression. It looks good on her. Caetuna does her best to display a smile — her genuine smile manifests more in her eyes than on her lips — but ultimately reverts to a neutral look. “At the same time, thank you for worrying about me. I’m unsure I’ll ever be able to repay your kindness.”

“Hey,” Emina starts, but Caetuna rests her head on the counter. It’s more to hide her face than anything else, but she’s also beginning to feel a little out of it. Only a little. Still, the empty bar is comfortable and quiet. She could nod off to sleep, safe under Emina’s watch...or save her the inconvenience by going home now. That’s a good idea. Caetuna attempts to stand, but stumbles and leans on the counter for support. In reality, her skirt simply got caught on the stool she’d been sitting on, but ever-attentive Emina is at her side to support her weight in a heartbeat.

“Come on,” Emina sighs. “There’s a couch in the back you can sleep on. It’s closing time up here anyway.”

Caetuna decides not to protest. “It seems I owe you another apology.”

“Damn right you do,” Emina says as she guides Caetuna through a door to the right of the counter. “But don’t worry. I know how you can repay me.” They begin to walk down a short hallway.

“How might that be?” Caetuna asks. “A date? Sex?”

Emina momentarily stiffens at the second guess, but nevertheless continues with Caetuna to the end of the hall. “Two dates,” Emina grumbles. They enter a door to the left, landing them in a small room with a couch, a coffee table, and multiple unlabeled boxes. Emina walks Caetuna to the couch and steps away to let her stand on her own. “It’s not much, but it’s a pretty decent crash couch. I speak from experience.”

“I can’t thank you enough,” Caetuna says. She lies across the couch on her side, then moves as far back as she can. “Ah. This will do nicely for two.”

Emina blinks. “Huh? OH. No, I’m gonna finish the dishes and head home. But then you might be stuck in here until brunch. Hold on a sec. I can...uh. You know what, I—”

“Emina,” Caetuna says, voice soft with yearning for slumber as well as an emotion she can’t be bothered to name. “Rest.”

Caetuna didn’t expect that she’d actually convince Emina to sleep — strictly, sleep — with her, but Emina gives her familiar sigh of defeat. “...Fine. For convenience’s sake.” Emina joins Caetuna on the couch, which is in fact spacious enough for the two of them, but just barely. The lights blink and dim, and Emina says...something, but Caetuna is already well on her way to unconsciousness by the time the words reach her ears.

* * *

Caetuna awakens to a faceful of hair and the lingering smell of alcohol. The situation would certainly be unpleasant if Emina weren’t curled up against her, snoozing without a care in the world. What happened last night to warrant this situation? Drinks, small talk...yes, right. The memories surface and fall into place easily enough. Caetuna didn’t even finish her first glass of absinthe, so the recall is quick. Even remembering the previous night, this is quite the circumstance. Not that Caetuna minds it; on the contrary, there’s something rather comforting about being used as Emina’s body pillow.

And, of course, Emina begins to stir just as that thought passes. She’s a bit dazed when her eyes open, clearly not adequately rested. “Good morning,” Caetuna says, and Emina’s eyes go wide. Caetuna predicts that Emina will leap to her feet and struggle to form coherent words, but she’s only half right.

Instead of jumping off the couch, Emina remains frozen in place, only moving her mouth. “Oh my...shit. Oh shit, I am so sorry. You were drunk and I uh...eh...uh… Shit. And...and uh. I should...not have...uh.”

“Two dates,” Caetuna says, promptly shutting Emina up. “I’ll be sure to pay you back in full, so resume your rest. You still have a few hours left.” She can tell from a glance that there are a thousand words Emina wants to say, and also that Emina is currently incapable of saying any of them. It’s oddly endearing, and warrants a kiss on the forehead in Caetuna’s opinion.

...But that can wait for next time.


	3. Punishment (Deuce/Rem)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Junior politician by day, Netrunner by night, Rem runs a tight schedule. But what happens when she is faced with Deuce, an infamous gang leader from Surround Sound Syndicate?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm grateful to be part of this AU project with the Final Fantasy Type-0 Discord group. What started off as fun talk expanded into a huge AU with its own lore, system, and characters. It's surreal, and I think it's really awesome how a simple idea can bloom to something that can be worked on as a group. I hope you enjoy this just as much as I did writing it!

**20:00**

Rain greeted those in Orience, especially those from Night City. It was a blessing, considering the harsh condition the summer brought with them… if it was not in the form of acid rain. The crops will be in ruins, the nutrients farmers painstakingly planted for months dissolving in a matter of minutes. And they did scream for injustice, the fresh fruit and vegetable supplies backed up by another two months.

But such weather is normal here. Many were grateful for the cooling temperature, some standing outside, arms raised, head high, praising a supernatural entity that only exists from narcotics. And they laughed. Laughed for a very… very long time, their laughter echoing throughout the slums of Night City.

Rem pulled her dark hood down, the dark shades concealing her soft gaze to the men and women on the streets. She hastened her pace towards her apartment. Steel steps creaked under her sneakers as she ascended, eventually stopping at the third floor of the ten-story complex. The young Tokimiya dug her hand into her pocket. At that same moment, one of her neighbors exited his home.

“Oya oya… It’s you again, missy,” John said, locking his door. The old male turned around with closed eyes, cane at hand, and softly smiled. “Not much work today?”

Rem smiled, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Something like that. You’re going out again?”

“Of course!” he laughed, opening his clouded eyes. “The best time to go out on a walk is at this time. Fewer people on the streets, you know?” John rubbed his bald head, his eyes crinkling. “Might also get me a woman or two for tonight.”

“Always so energetic…”

“Hey! I may be old, but my friend down here is always ready for some action.”

“Ugh. Why are you always like this?” Rem rolled her eyes.

She should be grateful that he made no advances to her— or rather, he told her that she wasn’t his type. (Was that a good or a bad thing?) And that was perfectly fine. Rem would want to do it with someone she loves, not with some stranger. Especially not with someone like John.

Before he could answer her hypothetical question, she patted his shoulder and bid him farewell. Once John left, Rem returned to her place.

There was almost nothing in the one-bedroom apartment that welcomed her. The door clicked shut, Rem slipped off her wet sweater, tossing it to the nearest torn couch. A weak yellow light illuminated parts of the dark room when she swooped down to snag an energy drink from the small fridge. The light was extinguished with a gentle thud. Rem shuffled in the nearest bedroom with the can at hand, kicking off her shoes from the doorway, and, finally, clicking the light switch.

A single light bulb flickered to life above her head, occasionally swinging its shadows around. The wooden floor creaked with every step as she walked. Her Vindicator Machina Pistol, pulled out of her sweatpant’s pocket, was thrown onto the clean white mattress, the firearm lightly bouncing upon contact. At the center of the room, Rem settled down on the leather chair, a three-screen computer staring at her. Wires sprouted from the monitors, tangling with one another, intertwining until they met at various outlet points. She took another sip from her caffeinated product.

Rem placed her half-empty can to the side, stretched her hands above her head, and reached for two thin USB cords. She grimaced once they were inserted into the sides of her head, the foreign material snuggled in the burnt outlet. No matter how many times she had done it… The young woman sighed and closed her eyes. One press was all it took to boot the computers to life.

She gasped.

Data poured into her mind, her eyes wildly zipping from right to left and vice versa, scrolls of neon blue fonts overwhelming her sight. The NET was a powerful tool, and to a hacker— a Netrunner, like her? It was her playground. Still… Rem’s knuckles whitened as she gripped the edge of her desk, growling under her breath as the startup slowly reduced its output. It took almost a minute until she stared at the bright screen from her desktops, her skin glistening with sweat.

“…”

The back of her head throbbed, but she ignored it. Instead, Rem guided her fingers onto the keyboards. The instant they made contact, the instant she began typing, pulling up search engines and her files. Information ranged from the daily news, gossips, and, most importantly, gang factions and the Tokimiya Party’s information.

A map of Night City pulled up. Crosses, highlights, labels, and legends scattered about, Rem double-clicking on one area of interest.

She frowned. Rem sipped her fruity content, her eyes reflecting the video of her parents leaving the white limousine. Her father, Howard, stepped out first. He held the door open for her mother, Bernadette, taking her hand like a gentleman. The two smiled and waved to the crowd, their presence popular among the rich and famous in Night City. Almost as if superstars bestowed their omnipotent presence.

Rem bit the bottom of her lip and typed in a code.

Another window popped over it. The same camera for the recorded video had widened its scope, allowing fuller view of the premise. Rem leaned forward, rubbing her chin, staring at the building her parents were entering. Then, she smirked. Network News 999 would have a blast airing this, the two popular politicians from Night City entering CyberConnect Bank for a business meeting. Their self-proclaimed loyalty to their citizens by investing in the one and only Night City Bank would be crushed in a matter of hours.

The Netrunner saved the file and copied it over to an encrypted e-mail account. It didn’t take long for the documentation to be sent over to Network News 999’s submission page. And Rem made sure it was the very first submission they would see the next morning.

Rem glanced at the digital clock while reaching for her drink.

**23:30**

It was almost time for her to head home. Staying late was not an issue for Rem, but she preferred to rest at her family’s condo. The next morning would be an easy transition for the junior politician. But just as Rem was about to get up from her seat, her cell phone rang.

No, it was from her right wrist, ringing inside of her head. Annoyed, Rem flipped her wrist around until the palm of her hand faced upward, a neon green light flickered. She frowned as a neon green hologram formed.

A profile image of Officer Queen was shown, the wavelengths of her voice kicking into action as she spoke.

“Rem, do you have information on any gangs tonight?”

Straight to business. That’s so like Queen. Rem stifled a sigh, tilted her head sideways, and strained a smile, even knowing full well that they can’t see each other’s face.

“I haven’t,” she said.

“Hm… I see.” There was a hint of disappointment from Queen’s voice. The corner of Rem’s lips twitched as she continued, “I was planning to send you a bonus payment if you were able to find any. There’s been an increased rate of criminal activities relating to gang violence this past week.” A pause. “Innocent lives are involved. Too many of them, in fact. We just had a child murdered by a member of The VooDoo Dolls.”

“How long ago?”

“Just now. I’m at the crime scene with the White Tiger.”

“Huh.”

Rem pinched the bridge of her nose. This was her source of income outside of her family, but she had another reason for running this side job. When Queen asked for confirmation of her presence, Rem nodded, murmuring, “I’ll get something to you as soon as possible. If I find something tonight, I’ll send them to your way.”

“Perfect.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Ah, I didn’t finish talking—”

“You don’t need to.”

She heard Queen stifle a chuckle on her head. Rem nearly groaned as the officer bid her farewell, promising to treat her for some lunch in Heaven to Hell. Did Queen forget that, if Rem wanted to, she could purchase more than half of Night City with her income alone? And the meals Queen treated her were, at best, those pre-packed meals with a meager amount of fresh ingredients.

But never mind that. Rem lightly slapped her cheeks, straightening her back, and swiped the blank hologram away. Fingertips back on the keyboards and mouse, she began her search. A long trek through firewalls, encrypted data, and malicious viruses to combat hackers. Hopefully, Rem could find one that wouldn’t give her so much trouble.

Minutes ticked by…

**24:00…**

Hours ticked by…

**2:00…**

Rem walked back into the room, the wires still in her head, yawning as she drowned in another can of a caffeinated product. The current flavor of actual black coffee barely managed to keep her functional at this dreadful time of the night. She rubbed her aching head, the surrounding charred skin from the outlets heating up to an incredible level. Rem crushed the can and tossed it to the nearest wastebasket.

It was her fifth can. And she still had to work, the search going nowhere.

The red-haired female rubbed her closed eyes, trying hard not to frazzle her brain more than necessary. Tomorrow was going to be a long day, the long list from her schedule taunting her. Meetings with her political allies, a visit to a charity organization, an event to donate money to said-charity, an interview with a journalist, Tiz, for a newspaper article about her family, and, finally, dinner with Enra. Rem resisted the temptation to slam her forehead on the desk.

Gosh, maybe she should give up the search for tonight. If she doesn’t sleep now, she’s going to screw up everything tomorrow. Rem retracted her hands, looking at her palms. She can’t afford to screw up, and she can’t afford to fail. All for the sake of maintaining her position as a politician for the future.

Rem sighed loudly and got up from her chair. She’s got to sleep here tonight. At least she had some spare formal attires in the closet to change once she finds an appropriate time and place tomorrow. So long as she gets in that 5-hour sleep, she can be functional with a clear head.

The thought strengthened her drowsiness. Rem pinched the USB cords on her head. Time to call it a night. But right when she was about to pull them out, a flash of red words popped in her sight. Rem stiffened her lips. She plopped back down on her seat, pulling up the urgent message that smacked her vision.

“…Surround Sound Syndicate?”

She rubbed her chin. When she clicked open the information from the organization, her eyes widened, the sleepy spell wearing off.

A gang led by Deuce. Though there were no pictures to accompany the leader’s face, the data consisted of sensitive profiles of members and events that they had engaged in. Most of the engagements were, oddly enough, harmless in nature. But their activities did involve getting into skirmishes with other gangs. The names of the other gangs appeared as well, but Rem didn’t bother searching them up just yet, her heart racing from this treasure find. There were also details about rare crimes that involved murders and assassinations of important financial figures from Night City.

Though Rem thinks they deserved the death penalty. “Still… I have to report you guys,” she shook her head, sending the information to Queen’s private account. There’s a possibility that information about the recent murder spree among innocent civilians hadn’t been recorded yet. After all, there were those terrifying rumors about their leader. It would be foolish to ignore them. 

Rem sighed with relief once she unplugged the wires and booted off her systems. She walked over to the mattress, ignoring the disheveled attire unfit for her sleeping ritual, and fell on it. Sinking into the furniture, she sighed again, burying her face into the pillow.

Sleep hit her like a truck almost instantly. And just like every night, she didn’t dream.

**[-----]**

**Somewhere in another location…**

Deuce rubbed her temple, staring at one of her lackeys, who was out of breath. Sitting behind her desk at their base, the brunette stifled a sigh. Shadows danced on the walls as the fire crackled from behind, the fireplace providing sufficient warmth into the cool office. She closed her eyes. Then, her index finger tapped on the report. 

“So, someone managed to grab ahold of our information,” she said.

The older male, easily mistaken as her bodyguard, viciously nodded. “I’m… I’m not sure how, but this hacker attempted to send it to the Night City Police Department.”

“Were you able to stop it?”

“Yes,” he nodded and thumped his chest. “Our Netrunner team was able to build up a firewall just in time to stop them from succeeding.”

Deuce opened her eyes to a slit. She chewed the inside of her cheek, frowning. “Were you also able to identify this person?” When he nodded and gave her his answer, her eyes widened. Then, those green hues glimmered, albeit with an ominous vibe. Deuce immediately got up from her seat, smoothing her black suit, and smiled. “Who would’ve thought… Then again, maybe it was time we put her in her place.”

“What do you think we should do, ma’am?”

“Easy,” Deuce motioned for his dismissal. “I visit her.”

He nearly tripped over his own feet. The scarred man with an eyepatch wildly motioned his hands in the air, sweat flying out from his head.

“M-Ma’am! You can’t be serious!”

“But I am.”

“What if she’s armed?!”

“Oh, knowing her history and position in Night City, I bet she doesn’t even know how to shoot.”

“Deuce!”

“Kenny,” Deuce narrowed her eyes and shooed him away once more. “Have you forgotten the reason why many people feared me? Including you, might I remind you?”

The older male took a step back, lowering his head. He breathed heavily and grumbled, “Very well, ma’am… However,” he raised his head. “If you are ever in any danger… she will have to pay with her life.”

“As if I wasn’t planning to do that in the first place,” Deuce tilted her head to the side. “As nice as I can be, for someone to leak our information to the police, they’re far too dangerous to be kept alive.”

“As expected of our boss.”

“Cut the flattery and get out of here. Do you need me to kick your ass?”

“Guh… I’ll be going now, ma’am…”

Kenny left her office after bowing his head, leaving her alone in the room. Deuce crossed her arms. She paced herself to the nearest window, looking out at the bleak, wet night.

Acid rain. Gods, she hated that weather.

Leaning against the cool surface, she rested her forehead on the glass, blue eyes staring out at the slow street. Deuce would normally return to her apartment from nearby at this time. But… with the light of this news…

She dug her fingers into her arms, a smile blooming on her face.

“It’s a shame you had to cross with us, Rem Tokimiya.”

**[-----]**

To Rem’s surprise, her entire schedule was cleared up for the day. The woman, who had hurried by cab, secretly switched her outfit to that of a politician, and made a mad dash to her condo in midst of an acid rain downpour, was greeted with an empty day for the morning.

“What is the meaning of this, mother and father?” she asked.

But Howard never looked up from his newspaper, and Bernadette continued to pack her husband’s lunchbox in silence. Rem moistened her lips. A soft click came from his container. She asked again… and was greeted with the same response: silence.

“…”

This treatment was not new to her. Rem ran her fingers through her hair, blinkingly fast. She dryly giggled and looked away. This treatment… Her shoe tapped on the porcelain flooring. This treatment was not new to her. Rem ran through her hair again, her lips trembling. It wasn’t new… It wasn’t… new… at all.

Her parents left the kitchen, exchanging their sweet farewells to each other, eventually leaving their home.

And this all happened without saying a single word to their daughter.

Rem’s breakfast remained out in the open, untouched as she rushed out of the premise, running to their garage. She was out of breath. Out of six cars, four were left. She approached one, grunting as the door swung open. From two of her cars, Rem left the complex with a hot red sports car, slamming hard on the gas pedal upon exiting.

The vehicle skidded hard, white smoke puffed from its screeching wheels, splashing unfortunate civilians with acid rain as she barely drifted on the road.

Stupid.

Stupid. Stupid…!

Stupid!

She gritted her teeth and zipped past the few cars on the highway.

Dammit!

DAMMIT ALL!

Rem breath was fast, slowing her vehicle until they were at the rugged apartment. The same apartment that she resided for her Netrunning occupation. Although she was clearly not dressed to blend in, it mattered not. Rem tightened her grip on the steering wheel, forehead planted on it. With closed eyes, she slowed her breathing.

_…dammit all to hell._

A temporary red blotch printed on her forehead as she parted. The young woman took out her trusty pistol from the compartment, tucking it inside of her red blazer, and exited from her car.

She caught attention from many of the poorer residents. Their heads popped from their hideouts, their wide eyes staring at her direction. When Rem glanced at them, they turned away, scampering back to safety. And… strange enough, the others that she hadn’t look at also scampered off. It was almost as if someone was chasing them away… Or was it just her imagination?

Not that she cared. Rem just wanted to hide inside of her apartment. If someone dared to ask, she could lie and state that she was a detective investigating a criminal’s home.

Yes… that lie could work. And when it came to John? Rem tucked her wet strands of hair behind her ear. She didn’t need to say much, lying through her teeth about returning early. If anything, Rem had more than enough money to transfer all her supplies and equipment into a new location should things spiral out of control. It would be a bit of a hassle, but Queen would understand the situation. She might be able to lend a hand too like she did last time.

Rem stood in front of her haven. A safe place far away from her emotional demons. Anytime she was here, she was no longer Rem, the junior politician.

She was Rem, the NET hacker.

Rem breathed. Then, pulling out the key, she inserted them into the keyhole. Or so she was about to. Her hand froze, staring at the doorknob. The doorknob was not only dented in certain areas, but the door itself was also already open by a sliver. She widened her eyes.

Someone had broken in.

There was a possibility that she could have forgotten to lock the door, but Rem was never that careless. Not when it came to this apartment and her side job.

Her heart started pounding hard, the young woman depositing the key back into her pocket. Rem snuck her hand inside of her jacket, fingers resting to its appropriate position on her firearm. Dryly swallowing, she opened the door.

“Who’s there?”

No answer.

Of course, there would be no answer.

Rem furrowed her brows, pulling out her pistol. Droplets from the tips of her hair and drenched attire quietly plopped on the hardwood floors, making a wet trail with every step into her apartment. She slowly crept through the dark premise. But from her bedroom, the one and only light available throughout this apartment was turned on. Her breath hastened, her eyes dilating.

Someone was in her room.

Someone.

Someone was there.

Oh gods, what should she do?

Rem’s mouth dried as hyperventilation threatened to consume her. She wasn’t prepared for this. In all honesty, she had trained in some form of self-defense, learning bits and pieces from Eight, but she had never applied them in a real-life situation. Her life was never in danger thanks to the protective service that came from being both a part of the Tokimiya Party and as a junior politician. Rem clenched until her jawlines formed. Squeezing her eyes shut, she counted to five.

When she reopened her eyes, she threw her reasonings out of the windows, rushing into the bedroom by kicking open the door. Gun up, she aimed at the culprit.

“What are you doing in my house!”

“Ah— You look like a wreck.”

Rem glared at the… the young suited woman sitting on her leather chair. Arms resting on the armrest, she tilted her head to the side, staring at the junior politician. Those blue hues, that mechanical right ear, and that smile… Just who is she?

As if she read her mind, the intruder slanted her eyes. “I’m Deuce. I’m quite sure you’re familiar with that name.”

Deuce… Deuce…! Rem’s blood froze as her knees locked. She’s the leader of the Surround Sound Syndicate!

Deuce raised a brow. Then, she broke out into a fit of laughter, startling Rem. “Gosh, I know most people are scared of me, but you…! Your reaction makes you look like someone from a comedy movie I’ve watched!” Deuce laughed again, holding onto her stomach. Rem’s hold on her gun faltered, stiffening her lips. Though she’s faced with one of the infamous gang lords in Night City, why is she being made fun of again? Wasn’t John’s remark about his distaste in her body already enough!?

“That’s not funny!” Rem drew her lips to a line and shakily motioned her pistol. “Just get out of here!”

Her laughter ceased. Perhaps a little too fast, the silence hitting like a truck. It was, ironically, deafening. Deuce continued smiling, but her eyes said otherwise. The brunette got up from her seat. She stared at Rem, her hand gliding over Rem’s keyboards.

“Say… Rem, I would, but leakers like you need to be punished.”

“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh? Playing dumb now?”

She slammed her fist on the keyboards, a couple of black pieces popping into the air. Rem restrained a whine. Deuce sighed and walked towards the politician. With each step forward, Rem took a step backward. This went on until Rem found herself against the wall, Deuce coming into proximity far for her comfort. Though they were of the same height, it felt as though Deuce towered over her.

“I know who you are, Rem, and I know you’re a Netrunner.”

“So what?” Rem glared. “Even if you know that, I sent the information over to the police. You will be caught, and your gang will not obstruct our lives in Night City.”

“Your lives? Heh. You speak as if you know why we live this way.” Deuce scoffed when Rem fumbled with her pistol. “You, who live like a little princess in a rich neighborhood, far from the slums, have no right to talk to us that way.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I don’t. But,” Deuce tapped the top of her gun, her eyes locked with Rem’s. “what you’re doing right now tells me everything.”

“I’m warning you! The police will come!”

“Don’t even try to threaten me with that. Your e-mails never went through them.”

“What— But how?”

Deuce shrugged. “I’ve got people. Know them. Earned them. Respect them.”

“Tch…” Rem gritted her teeth. With trembling arms, she barked, “I’m going to shoot!”

Deuce’s eyes glistened. “Then try me.” She reached for her gun. Rem squeezed one eye shut, tightening her grip on the weapon. But the leader did not take her firearm. Instead, Deuce reached for the safety lock.

“You forgot your safety lock, dear.”

It clicked.

“!?”

“Also… if you really want to… I could help you.”

Rem nearly collapsed on the spot when Deuce guided her pistol. The tip snuggled squarely on Deuce’s forehead. When Rem tried to pull away, Deuce kept an iron hold over her hands.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Rem whispered.

“Like I said, I’m helping you,” Deuce said with a smile. “All you have to do is pull the trigger. Once I’m dead, my influence over parts of Night City will be gone, and the Surround Sound Syndicate will be no more. Just like you wanted.”

“Stop it—”

“Why stop? Isn’t this what you really wanted though? To stop all gangs from forming in Night City?”

“No— That’s not it…”

“Really? Because you’re showing me something else, Rem Tokimiya.” Deuce further impressed her pistol, closing her eyes. “Do it.”

“N-No!”

“Do it.”

“I said no!”

“DO IT!”

“NEVER!”

Rem finally tore her hands away, throwing the pistol against the wall with a loud thump. Hot tears ran down her face as she breathed hard. “Don’t you ever…” Rem violently swiped the air, “ever, tell me what to do.” She grabbed Deuce’s collars and, with incredible force, pulled her in. Their nose bumping each other, their breaths tickled as she snarled, “You really don’t know me… and you don’t know why I’m trying so hard with this job.” She shook Deuce. “What’s wrong with trying to make Night City better for everyone, huh!?”

Such purity. It was a dream she envisioned at a young age.

The first time she stepped into the slums, her perfect world shattered. Rem always thought everyone flourished like her family. They would always eat the finest ingredients, freshly picked from the gardens afforded to those with massive wealth, and they would attend schools only the richest and most elite can attend. But to those outside of her circle? They would never be able to dream of obtaining these in their lifetime. Or even into the next life.

And so, Rem aspired to work hard. She worked and slaved herself in the education system, soaking in experiences from the Tokimiya Party from one political event to the next. All while maintaining her dignity, reputation, image, and pure dream to improve the lives in Night City.

What better way than to start with the gangs that were hurting those from the lower levels?

Rem shook Deuce, dipping into a quiet sob. “What’s wrong… with that?” 

Deuce eyed her. She said nothing at first, examining, observing, watching the junior politician. “I would like to try and sympathize with you, but I need you to answer one question.” Deuce placed her hands over Rem’s. “Why are you hunting after gangs like my organization? Or rather, why did you report my group?”

“You might be one of the gangs that have been running around, murdering innocent civilians.”

“Oh my gosh, you really don’t know us, do you.” When Deuce retracted her hands and Rem released her hold, she noticed the missing warmth from the gang leader. However, it didn’t disappear for long, the warmth pressed against her cheeks. Deuce cupped her face, using her thumbs to wipe the stray tears. “Do you even know who the Surround Sound Syndicate is other than information from the files you’ve tried to send?”

She shook her head. Deuce lowered her head, chuckling. “Gods, you’re such a naïve girl.” Raising her head, she squished her cheeks.

“My gang would never lay a finger on an innocent person. Our motto is ‘never forget, never forgive.’ We only exact revenge on those that cross us and those that would put any innocent lives from Night City in any immediate danger… well, if they request our services, that is.”

“…like that White Tiger vigilante?”

“No. We get paid to do so.”

“Oh… Then... what about the rumors about you?" 

"What about me?" 

"The fact that you're nicknamed Killer Deuce and how you won't stop chasing your target until they died a horrible death by your hands." 

"Urk..." 

"I presume that's also not true?"

"They're half right." 

"!?" 

Which aspect of that statement as true though? Rem's puzzling features dissipated once Deuce burst into another fit of laughter. She squished her cheeks again despite Rem’s protest, and said, “You know, you’re not what I thought you were.” After she released her hold, she stepped away from the politician. "It would be a shame if you were to die on me." 

“So… you’re not going to punish me then?”

“Still naïve, I see.” The brunette tapped the side of her head, her eyes slanted. “We’ll always be keeping an eye on you… especially me. Today won’t be our last meeting.”

After all, Rem knew the secrets of their organization, even if she didn’t know much about the SSS gang as a whole. To let her go would be to condemn her entire group to death. And she couldn't do that. Not after what she had to sacrifice to get here. The torment Deuce had to endure would all go to waste if her gang disappeared on her.

Rem was flabbergasted. Deuce, amused by her response, pat her on the shoulder as she walked out of the bedroom.

“We’re going to get to know each other a lot more starting today.”

“Guh…”

“I’ll be in your care, Miss Tokimiya.”

“Ugh, please, just call me Rem.”

“Right… Rem.” Deuce paused at the doorway. Glancing over her shoulder, she smiled with closed eyes. “Also, please change your clothes. You should be glad that I have enough dignity to keep myself from raping you.”

Those parting words confused Rem. But not for long. She glanced down and her cheeks instantly flushed. She may have worn a suit, but the rain also drenched her white blouse, sticking and showing off parts of her black bra. Mature beauty. A trait that boosted thanks to her sizeable chest, the pair of fine breasts that weren't too big, and it wasn't too small. Rem squeaked and covered herself up.

Deuce was right— completely and utterly right. And if her legs weren't like jelly, she would grab her pistol and shoot Deuce in the head right about now. Just how long did Deuce gawk at her vulnerable body!? 

As for Deuce, she closed the door, welcomed by the continuous downpour almost immediately. Hands in her pockets, she raised her head, looking to the sky.

“…why did I let her live?”

Deuce had every opportunity to murder her. Execute her on the spot. It made total sense since Rem intended to send them all to prison. Or rather, to a death sentence. Each and every one of her gang members would be killed, lest they spill the secrets and be served a lighter sentence: banishment from Night City. The young woman narrowed her eyes.

Perhaps there was something she was fascinated with. Rem’s purpose that drove her to this part of the city, the constant battle as both a politician and as a Netrunner… A part of her wanted to wake Rem up to a harsh reality. Orience was not what it was once was. But at the same time… Deuce rubbed her chin, the corner of her lips perked up. She wanted to see Rem succeed.

After all, Deuce wished for the tranquil days that she was once blessed with, her scarred heart seeking for peace.


	4. Queen of Nothing (Queen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Getting this city to a state of even remote sanity is going to take a lot of failure."
> 
> As one of the few police officers who still have a passion for justice, Queen stresses about more matters than her colleagues tend to.

Machina's tips can be rather dubious at times, but the sight of a man walking into an alley with shifty body language announcing his anxiety seems promising. Queen takes the stairs up the side of the nearest building, which happens to be home to eight different spare parts shops stacked one on top of the other. The sounds of drills, saws, and clanging metal overtake the street noise as Queen climbs to the fifth floor. This distance should be enough. She takes a seat on a rusty bench and looks between the equally rusty guard rail balusters to keep watch over the situation. To her advantage, the nervous man is moving rather slowly. A scan identifies him as Wyatt Brodeur, twenty-six, with a spotless record save for an unarmed robbery incident a decade ago. Intuition says he hasn’t a clue what he’s doing.

Wyatt paces around the back of the alley for a minute or two, then finally leans against a brick wall. Whoever he’s meeting isn’t as punctual as, say...well, Queen. But they do show up, after a few more minutes. Who appears to be a woman with silver hair approaches at a quick walking speed. Wyatt waves hesitantly, but instead of returning the gesture, his contact immediately opens an anonymous transaction window. Her movements are quick and fluid; this woman is a professional, and furthermore Queen can’t get a read on her ID. Maybe facial recognition would work, if she’d turn around…

The payment goes through and the woman shoves a plain paper bag into Wyatt’s hands, taking off in the opposite direction not a second after. Queen still doesn’t manage to catch her face. She starts down the stairs and opens a communication line with a district dispatcher. “Hello, I need a trace on—”

“Good afternoon, Queen. Unfortunately, all human dispatchers are occupied. If your situation is not related to a case on the citywide priority list, please—”

Queen closes the line. So much for that. By the time she reaches ground level, the silver-haired woman is gone without a trace, but Wyatt is still walking out of the alley with a noticeable bulge in his jacket. Oh, well. It’s better than nothing. Queen blocks Wyatt’s path, startling the poor man. “NCPD.” A hologram displaying Queen’s badge appears until she continues speaking. “Hello, Wyatt. Would you care to come to the station with me?”

Wyatt looks around frantically, but gives up in the end. He offers his wrists. “I wasn’t doin’ nothin’ bad, you know. Just needed some meds for my headaches.”

“We’ll save any judgement for the judge,” Queen says. She cuffs Wyatt and calls for a state vehicle. It’s protocol for arrests made off-duty, but the thought to just commandeer a taxi has crossed her mind on multiple occasions. At least questioning should go smoothly, based on Wyatt’s temperament. Maybe things can finally progress with this drug case.

After about fifteen minutes of waiting, a police car finally comes around. The driver is someone who apparently likes to play loud, AI-generated country-rap at triple speed. Needless to say, the ride to the nearest station is hell and a half. Queen endures, doing her best to extract information in the car since she’s unlikely to be granted a proper interrogation.

“Who was the woman who made the sale to you?” Queen asks.

“Dunno,” Wyatt says. “Everythin’ was anon.” He gives Queen a sheepish look. “Uh… I’m thinkin’ somebody important, though. She was hot but like, in a kinda scary way. Aura, y’know?”

“No, I don’t know,” Queen says. “How did you come into contact with your supplier?”

Wyatt perks up slightly. “My bro from the drone forums, Rhodie. We were talkin’ about...uh...I dunno, in the DMs the other day and I was sayin’ how my headache meds wasn’t doin’ much anymore. So he gave me a number to text and told me to ask for Pydro.”

“Pydromalifir?” Queen asks, visibly surprised. She immediately regains her professional composure. “Pydromalifir is a performance-enhancing drug. It has anaesthetic properties, yes, but the side effects can compromise chips and even the entire nervous system. Do you know the concentration of your contraband?”

“No,” Wyatt says. “...Oh, actually I said I wanted somethin’ to end my suffering. A little dramatic. But then they were like, ‘You gotta order this much’ and all that. So I waaaanna say it’s the heavy stuff.

Queen pinches her brow. “If what you’re saying is true, I very well may have just saved your life. Now, this Rhodie character. What information do you have about them? Keep in mind that this conversation is being recorded, and I _will_ find out with or without your assistance.”

“Okay, I’ll talk,” Wyatt says as he shrinks away. How did someone so easily intimidated work up the nerve to buy illicit drugs? Queen elects not to mull it over, and focuses on the conversation at hand. “Rhodie, he… Uh, actually I dunno know that much. Username’s Rhodie101. Likes drones and cars. And retro TV. We bumped into each other online two, three months ago but never met up. Busy and all. Do you like drones, Officer?”

“I like drones,” the driver says. Queen can’t stop herself from sighing. If she’s going to pursue this lead any farther, she’ll need a warrant — which isn’t happening — or hacking assistance that breaks data privacy laws. Not that those are respected anyway. The disappointment is unsurprising and mildly disheartening, but no one ever succeeded without failure. And getting this city to a state of even remote sanity is going to take a _lot_ of failure.

The car comes to an abrupt stop. “Destination: Station Numero Eito,” the driver says. Queen stops recording. That’s all she’s getting out of this one. She leads Wyatt into the station, where a half-asleep warden takes custody of him. Queen submits a digital synopsis of the incident, and walks right back out of the station as her firsthand account of the arrest uploads to the NCPD database. What a pain — not to mention that she only had time to linger around waiting for a drug deal because a senior officer switched shifts with her without so much as asking. The nerve…

This situation calls for a drink. But it’s too early to be drinking, so Queen settles on hitting the VR park instead of the bar. It shouldn’t be too crowded at this time of day. She takes the subway, which is _always_ crowded, but in a stroke of unexpected luck she manages to squeeze onto the first train to stop at the platform after she’s queued up. Two stops later, she’s at the heart of an entertainment district housing multiple VR parks — but she always insists on giving her patronage to Tigress VR. It’s the oldest establishment of its kind in town, and, in Queen’s humble opinion, the best. Queen wastes no time in heading straight into Tigress, promptly requesting a capsule for one upon entry.

The hostess, a young woman who probably knows more about Queen’s hobbies than anyone ought to, happily guides her to a VR capsule. Queen takes a seat inside and smiles as the hostess shuts the door with a classic, “Please enjoy your experience.” And Queen intends to do just that.

Inside the capsule, Queen’s surroundings transform into a digital space of infinite possibility, infinite realms to travel to. Of course, her preferred realm is one specific item on the list of available simulations in the holographic menu displayed before her. Number six, _Tokimeki VR: Let’s Go On A Date!_ If Queen has learned anything in the way of romance throughout her life, it’s that no one will ever understand her the way that drop-dead gorgeous twins Pedro and Paris do.

Crystal clear holograms of the fictional men appear on either side of Queen as the environment transforms into that of an upscale restaurant, complete with organic food she could never afford in reality. It’s a beautiful private fantasy; the perfect getaway...if Queen could get away from some of her own thoughts.

“My, you look pensive,” Pedro says.

“Like a work of art whose meaning not even the artist knows,” Paris adds.

“Enigmatic beauty,” they say in unison. “Shall we give you delight?”

Queen would love for nothing more, but summoning the twins is proving to be more than a mistake. Focusing on the two of them to escape thoughts of dead ends and constant hurdles only serves to redirect her train of thought to somewhere even worse.

Twins. Two. Duality. Janus. The Janus Case. The NCPD picked it up long enough to give it a name, but gave up due to a lack of clues and a surplus of other criminal activities. Regrettably, murder isn’t uncommon in Night City. The Janus Case in particular refers to a string of gruesome and mind-boggling incidents — no discernable pattern, no survivors, and no suspects. The singular characteristic tying them all together is essentially just how brutally the victims were torn apart. The very first crime scene lingers in Queen’s mind to this day — even with the bodies cleaned up, there was so much blood… Four slaughters later, and still no clues about a perpetrator or motive. Some detective Queen turned out to be.

“In days long past, lovers would present one another with flowers,” Pedro says. He flicks his wrist to produce a rose, and a flurry of digital rose petals blows by. It’s a magnificent sight, but the thrill Queen usually feels when spending time with her handsome computer-generated companions seems to be absent today. So, she aborts the simulation.

The twins exchange a brief look of sadness, and then smile. “Until our next rendez-vous! ♡”

The capsule returns to its default state. Queen exhales. A sense of justice really takes its toll in a city like this. Or maybe it’s just her own stubbornness pushing her to bother upholding the law, at this point. Regardless of motivations, duty is duty. And in a few short hours, Queen will have to commit to hers once more, submerged in a sea of chaos under a neon haze.


	5. Nowhere (Sice, Seven)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leading a gang means dealing with the good, the bad, and the lingering.

Sice kneels on the dusty ground and presses her fingers against the neck of a rookie East Crew member. The skin is lukewarm to the touch, and needless to say, there’s no pulse. “It looks like it was either poison or a lethal hack,” a senior member reports. “What are your orders?”

No member death has ever sat right with Sice — not even those of traitors — but this one doesn’t seem to have any sort of logic behind it. Why kill someone with no money, no important secrets, no key role in the gang? Just unceremoniously strike a man down in a yard of empty old warehouses and leave him to rot in the elements? Maybe the intent was to piss Sice off. In that case, the objective has been thoroughly completed. Sice stands. “Graveyard. But extract his chips first. You find _anything_ on who might’ve done this, you tell me.”

“Ma’am,” the senior member says with an affirmative nod.

“Anything else while I’m on the north side?” Sice asks. She lightly rubs her thumbs over her fingertips, as if that will brush off the feeling of death.

“We’ve had some...intruders,” the member reports. “West Crew seems intent on expanding into our territory despite more than one warning.” They clench their fist. “Do we need to make the message clearer?”

“Wouldn’t that be a party,” Sice mumbles. “Let’s hold off on the festivities for now, though.” She forces herself to display a smirk. “I think we can settle this with another diplomatic meeting. And if not, I wouldn’t necessarily mind a good chance to beat some ass.” It would be wise to avoid such confrontations when possible, but when Sice’s blood boils, so does her craving for fist-on-face action. Thankfully, her leadership role has greatly improved her self-control over time. When all else fails, Seven has a knack for dissuading her from making decisions she’ll regret.

Speaking of which, Seven should be done with her deliveries by now. Maybe they can meet up and hang at the gym — or anywhere. The unsettling chill of having just touched a corpse warrants a distraction while Sice can afford one. “I’m gonna head off.” She leaves her associate to deal with the body, mulling over the fact that she even has the option to do so as she walks toward the nearest rail station, kicking up dirt with each step. The trains in areas like slums and dumps don’t run nearly as often as the more bustling parts of town, so the wait time listed at the empty, shabby platform is no surprise: 16 minutes. It’s a mild inconvenience, but nothing a rhythm game can’t take care of.

Sice pulls up a holographic window and taps the random button. The song selected isn’t a favorite, but it isn’t distasteful, so Sice plays away to receive a grade of...C. The next song is significantly easier, and Sice falls just short of an S rank. The final song Sice plays before the train arrives is unexpectedly long, grueling, and downright painful. The fact that she walks away with a D- hardly even hurts her pride. The train arrives at the platform a minute ahead of schedule and comes to a creaky halt. Sice climbs aboard, thankful to spot an empty seat before the train starts moving again. She manages to claim it just as the vehicle jolts into motion.

And then she waits. The view of dead earth and abandoned buildings through the window is quickly replaced by slums, then proper housing complexes, and finally tons and tons of small buildings tightly packed together — plenty lively, but not as obnoxiously colorful as red-light districts and tourist spots. Sice closes her eyes as the train winds toward the next station. The mostly quiet atmosphere is pretty peaceful.

Scratch that.

The prickling sensation of being watched forces Sice’s eyes wide open. Her eyes glow red, rapidly scanning for any abnormalities or danger. Results: none.

The train stops once again, and Sice is more than happy to deboard. She hops off and does another scan, still spotting nothing alarming, but her eyes do fall upon the partially hooded visage of a silver-haired woman on the train as it pulls away from the platform. “Huh?” If there’s anyone Sice never expected to see riding public transit, it’s gotta be _her._

But nevermind that. Sice sends a message to Seven.

**Gonna work out. You in?**

_I’m already at Eight’s._

**Foreal? I better catch up.**

Sice had expected Seven to take a nap or something after wrapping up the day’s assignments, but hey — there’s no harm in working up a sweat, either. She makes a jog across the street and down a few buildings to Eight’s gym. Sure, it reeks of sweat all the time, but it’s a comfy little place. The first thing Sice sees when she opens the door is a man flying through the air onto his back. And of course, the cause of this lovely sight is Eight, in a defensive stance. His poor sparring partner raises his hand in concession.

Sice laughs internally as she heads for the back of the gym, where she and Seven usually work out. As expected, Seven’s waiting on her with — hell yes — a punching bag. “Yo,” Sice says, picking up her step and meeting Seven with a punch to the unfortunate sack of dirt.

“Stressed?” Seven asks.

Sice kicks the punching bag. “Hm? Like, any more than usual? Not really.”

“Mmmmhm.” Seven ties her hair back in a ponytail using a gray band that blends right in with her hair color. It resembles Sice’s style like that, albeit a bit less spiky and a little darker. Still. Might as well make the joke:

“Hey, twin.” Sice laughs at her own quip, since Seven sure as hell won’t. “Okay, not my best.” She begins to jab the punching bag. Seven keeps a guiding hand on the sack as to prevent it from swaying too much.

“No problems with deliveries today,” Seven reports. “Any skirmishes on your end?”

No, no _skirmishes,_ but… “Nope!” Sice strikes the punching bag with exceptional force, pushing Seven to hold it in place with both hands. “But Hal’s dead.” It’s the first time she’s said the man’s name since seeing him there, still and silent. She delivers a barrage of punches and kicks, the synthetic leather burning against her skin. The assault comes to an abrupt halt as Sice pauses to collect her breath. “...Damn it.”

“That was the new guy,” Seven says. “Right? Why him?”

“Dunno.” Sice delivers a swift kick to the side of the punching bag. “But I’m gonna find out.”

“Think you’ll need a hand with the reprisal?” Seven asks.

Reprisal? Would it even be worth it? It doesn’t make sense to retaliate over something so objectively minor. It leaves a bad taste in Sice’s mouth that she even has the capacity to think like that. Vengeance won’t do a damn thing for the dead. Seven knows that better than Sice does, nevermind the other shit they’ve got to deal with, so why even offer? Probably just a gesture of solidarity. “I’ll keep you posted on that.” Sice stretches her arms above her head and inhales. “Mind running out with me to give Kazusa his cut tonight?”

“Like you have to ask,” Seven says, feigning offense. “Wanna stop for a drink after?”

That’s not a bad idea. Sice could use about ten drinks...but she’s pretty useless after three. “Only if you’re paying. Now, hold on tight. I’m about to punch this bag wide open.”

Maybe when she’s buzzed, she can work up the nerve to visit Hal’s grave.


	6. Vigilance (Machina)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Machina takes matters into his own hands as a masked vigilante who battles against overlooked injustices.

The subway stations under Night City are so vast and interconnected that they’re like an entire city in their own right: filled with busy people coming and going, noisy, and overwhelming to many. It’s easy to get lost, and even easier to lose sight of someone else.

Machina really,  _ really _ can’t afford either of those options right now. He jumps onto the rail of the escalator leading from floor 1S up to the ground floor and speeds past a cluster of annoyed commuters.

“Watch it, asshole!”

“This ain’t a party, ya moron!”

Their complaints are warranted, but there’s no time to stop and apologize. Machina pushes and weaves through groups of bodies on the ground floor, eyes fixed on the back of a blue-haired teenager’s head. They’re off-balance, tugged along by a woman who, with all visibly cybernetic limbs and a half-metal head, looks more cyborg than human. As far as evidence goes, it’s nothing more than a gut feeling, but something’s not right. This isn’t right. Whatever it is is foul and twisted and  _ wrong, _ and the only thing people bat an eye at is him, desperately rushing through the crowd.

“Nice mask, dick.”

“Hey, we all got places to be!”

Not great for reputation, but public opinion and justice — both subjective things at the end of the day — aren’t exactly correlated. Machina follows the color blue out of the station into the desolate night. Slums, shady shops, and heightened danger await in this part of the city. Logic says to turn back, but justice shouts to come to the youth’s rescue. Machina’s feet move without hesitation behind his targets, abandoning the relative safe light of the station for dim dirt paths.

Machina makes no attempt to hide as minutes pass. He instead waits for the mysterious woman to acknowledge him. The sounds of chirps and distant growls gradually overtake those of disgruntled crowds as a few  _ more  _ minutes pass, and it seems that the woman is intent on ignoring Machina as they trudge through a long alleyway. Things aren’t going as anticipated, but speaking up is simple enough.

“Stop!” Machina digs one foot into the ground in preparation for a chase.

Fortunately, the woman displays no desire to run. She turns around, the teen following her lead. The teen is wide-eyed, completely out of it, and deathly pale. Bingo.

“I’m sure you’re aware trafficking is a crime,” Machina states.

The woman sighs. “It’s apparent you’re unaware that it’s only a crime if you get caught.”

Machina attempts to quell his own rage by focusing on the objective of  _ rescue.  _ “Then consider yourself caught.”

“By who, the Masked Toddler Alliance?” A souped-up Mantis Blade extends from her left forearm in the blink of an eye with a distinct, sharp noise. “The parts in this kid’s chest alone are worth more than your life. Beat it, last chance.”

Machina slowly reaches for his monowhip. He may have low-grade weapons compared to his foe, but if he efficiently utilizes his arsenal, he may just be able to win...or at least, flee with the victim. “The White Tiger will never accept injustice.”

“Your funeral.” The woman rushes Machina, narrowly dodging the first swing of his whip. She pivots her foot and punches, knocking Machina clear into the air. The dizzying blow leaves Machina at a loss for breath. The moment he lands on his feet, he collapses onto one knee and draws a pained breath, only to cough it right out. The woman steps to him and raises her blade with no further comment.

Machina extends his own Mantis Blades, throwing his arms up in a guard that he prays will be enough to defend against the next attack. Instead of the anticipated clash of metal, however, a gunshot rings out, the sound ricocheting off every building in the alley. The woman collapses with the weight of a boulder, pierced circuitry and shattered skull fragments visible as blood gushes from a single bullet wound.

Machina lowers his guard and pushes himself away, eyes still fixed on the body in front of him. Just a few seconds ago, she was…

“Don’t play the hero if you aren’t ready for the consequences.” A masculine voice snaps Machina out of his stupefied spell. Machina tears his eyes away from the body and looks up the alley to see a well-dressed, hooded man. There’s an aura about him that’s ominous, but not evil. Not precisely  _ wrong.  _ The man takes the blue-haired teen’s wrist in a light grip and guides them to Machina, then releases them, not stopping once as he passes Machina by.

The man is nearly out of sight when Machina manages to call out, “Hey!” He has many questions, many questions. “Thank you!” But it’s best he doesn’t stick his nose into any more people’s affairs for now. He takes the dazed teen’s hand, clenching his jaw behind his mask. “Let’s get you to a police station. I know a really good officer who’ll make sure you’re a-okay.”

Of course, the teenager doesn’t respond, but at least they’ll live to see a day where they’ll have the ability to do so. Machina takes a heavy step, slowly beginning the journey back toward the station and silently praying for the departed soul’s respite.


	7. Diplomacy (King)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King takes care of some messy business.

In all his life, Adrian had never thought of himself as one to “squirm” or “wriggle” or “squeal”. He’d grown up on the streets of Night City, after all, and that required a certain level of grit. Even the couple of close shaves he’d had coming up hadn’t rattled him, and this, among other things, had attracted the eyes of the Royals. Certainly, since joining the Royals, he’d thought of himself as a kind of “man’s man”, the toughest of toughs, doing as he saw fit and anyone who cross him be damned. 

But now, tied to a chair in a dingy warehouse, under the unflinching stare of a very, very disappointed King, Adrian squirmed. He wriggled, too. Nobody liked disappointing the boss. Not only was he well-respected enough that his disapproval felt like a sign of failure, but King was also a man who didn’t waste, be it words, time, ammunition, or money. If something was causing a problem, he got rid of it and moved on. Sometimes, “something” meant “someone”. Adrian was _very_ invested in making sure this was not one of those times.

“So, Adrian. Please explain to me why we’re here,” King said, in a bass which rumbled like whispered thunder. “Because as I understand it, you seem to have betrayed the Royals. I _very_ much hope I am mistaken,” he continued, in a tone which made it clear that he was not optimistic about the odds of such hopes. Adrian took the silence which followed as his cue to speak. 

“W-w-w-well, boss, you see boss, I did a little thinking. S-see, Night City is only so big, right? Which means there’s only so much turf and so many resources to go around. And it stands to reason, right, that the more people there are fighting over those resources, the fewer resources everyone gets. So if we were to remove one of the other players, the Royals would be able to do a little expandin’, see?”

“I see,” King responded. “And the player you chose to attempt to eliminate just _happened_ to be the Surround Sound Syndicate?” “Exactly, boss. You understand, of course—nothing personal, just business. More customers for us, too bad, so sad, for them, you know?” While he didn’t dare smile, Adrian breathed a sigh of relief. Lucky for him, the boss seemed to understand where he was coming from. He hadn’t been successful in his attempt to remove that particular player—for some reason, the police had never followed up on his tip-off, corrupt bastards that they were. But at least King had given him the opportunity to explain himself. Sure, you didn’t turn rat, but he was only doin’ what he had to for the Royals, right? King would understand that—he _had_ to. 

“I see.” King rose to his full height from the crouch that had been keeping him at eye level with Adrian. “How unfortunate that your attempt to demonstrate your value would show just how little value you actually hold.” He turned, beckoning idly with one hand as he did so. Two figures stalked from Adrian’s periphery towards King, who only paused to turn briefly towards Adrian, giving a brief nod in his direction before exiting the warehouse. _What now?_ , thought Adrian. It was the second-to-last thing to pass through his mind, followed only by a single 9mm round. 

Outside the warehouse, King sighed, the smoke hissing from his lips small comfort for the mess he had to clean up. There were some days when he wished he wasn’t in charge of the Royals. He would have been the last person to deny that growing up with an inside view of how the Royals operated had helped him learn how to run the gang, even if an unfortunately skilled assassin had initiated his succession sooner than had been planned. Indeed, if pressed King might even admit that he was possessed of a uniquely calm and collected demeanor, the kind which was able to wield authority and inspire followers without overextending itself.

Neither of those factors, however, was any more comfort than the cigarette which slightly focused his attention, even as it gently burned his lungs. That was the thing about subordinates with initiative. If initiative was not mixed sufficiently with common sense, you wound up with a liability rather than a helping hand, and liabilities wasted everyone’s time and resources. He sighed, dropping the cigarette on the ground and crushing it under his heel. A pity, but business was business. 

As if on cue, a tall woman with short, dark hair emerged from the warehouse, carrying a small black package. “You’ll want to put this on ice, Grigori,” she said to the exceedingly pale, white-haired man to whom she handed the package. “I figured,” the man replied. Grigori the Ghost was King’s resident transportation and delivery specialist. 

The nickname had originated as a jab at his albinism, but had grown into a term of respect—his childhood years avoiding bullies had provided him with an almost encyclopedic knowledge of the back alleys, hidey-holes, and secret passages which lurked beneath Night City, an overlooked lymphatic system which transported all the things most upstanding Night City denizens would deny ever hearing of. Rumors said that he could walk through walls, just like his namesake. He had embraced the image as his own brand, too, opting for his cybernetic eyes to be a shade of pinkish-red which matched the organics which they replaced. 

In his capacity as one of King’s advisors, Grigori oversaw the logistics of the Royals’ import/export work—how to get supplies from one place to another without anybody noticing that they had been moved, and doing so in a manner that preserved the quality of the materials transported. His work was top-notch, which was very useful when transporting things like medical supplies or the severed heads of disobedient subordinates—both of which happened to be on his docket for the day. 

The tall woman turned to King. Unlike the rest of her compatriots, who each wore some variation of suit, she was dressed in black combat boots and matching fatigues, the web belts criss-crossing her form hung with various holsters, pouches, and tools. “Gun’s taken care of—anything else you need, boss?” she asked. 

“Thank you Naya, that will be all,” King replied. “Let me know if you hear anything back from your scouts about the VooDoo Dolls.” “Roger that,” Naya replied, giving a brief nod to her employer and colleagues before fading into the shadows. Though not possessed of as accurate an internal map as Grigori, Naya’s prior special-forces experience with a Militesi mercenary group had given her many useful skills, not least of which was her ability to make herself disappear in just about any given environment. It was one of the things that made her so well-suited to head the Royals’ “cleaner” force, the offensive wing of its security branch. 

“ ‘Fore I take my leave too, where you want this to end up, boss?” Grigori asked, gesturing to the black package in his right hand. “I was actually thinking of delivering that one myself,” King replied. Some things were too important to leave up to subordinates, and major acts of diplomacy, as far as King was concerned, fell under that category. “I’d like to pick it up near the slums, if possible.”

Grigori chuckled. “Sure, it’s possible. There’s an old dead drop behind an apartment complex that’s pretty quiet. Take about a day to get there, but everything should still be in tip-top shape for delivery.” King nodded approvingly. It was late, regardless, and he needed to get some sleep. Leadership was complicated enough on a good night’s rest—no need to complicate it any further. “Sounds good to me.” Grigori nodded, waved, and walked away, the flickering streetlights barely illuminating his pale form as it disappeared around a corner. 

King had hoped for the drive home to be uneventful. It had been a long day, and he needed the rest. Unfortunately, his driver and head bodyguard Shirou had other ideas. “So boss, what vehicle do you think you’ll be using tomorrow? I just wanna get an idea of about how many guys we’ll need, and what we should have in terms of lead and chase, ya know? Now obviously I’d prefer one of these babies,” Shirou affectionately patted the steering wheel of the Militech Chevalier in which they rode, “but I’m open to other options, too.”

“I was thinking of taking the V-Tech,” King began, cutting off Shirou’s burgeoning response by saying, “alone.” King could see Shirou’s eyes widening in the rearview mirror. “It’s fast, it’s nimble, and it’s not too flashy,” he continued. “Shouldn’t draw attention, which is perfect for what I’ll be doing. You’ve earned a day off, anyway.” He understood that Shirou, as head of the defensive wing of the security branch, would be worried, but Shirou had a tendency to overdo things—like making all of King’s security detail get haircuts which matched King’s own. It was touching, really, but not very effective for going incognito, which was what King was doing. 

“But-but-but-but boss,” Shirou blustered, “I really don’t feel good about sending you out on your own. I appreciate your concern and all, but it really would be more restful for me to know that you had some of my people with you, just in case, you know?” Shirou’s worries were not groundless—he had been a bodyguard for King for a short while, but long enough to remember when King’s father had been assassinated. To think that the same thing might happen to his own “principal” still kept him up at night. 

“You _do_ know that I can handle myself, don’t you Shirou?” King gently chided. While nobody, King included, knew the exact details of what had occurred in his short time away from the Royals prior to his succession, it was an undeniable fact that King was far from helpless in combat. Not only did his twin Malorian Arms 3516 handguns pack a significant punch, King’s “Wall” ability effectively nullified just about any sniper’s efforts. Indeed, as self-sufficient as King was, he might as well have been protecting Shirou, instead of the other way around.

The consideration of this fact, as well as the tone in King’s voice, reassured Shirou. Not completely, of course—his constant vigilance and unwillingness to take any situation at face value was one of the reasons he made such an effective head of security—but enough to acquiesce to his leader’s demands. “Alright boss,” he said grudgingly. “Just—take care of yourself, okay? And if there’s any sign of trouble—”

“All I have to do is call and you’ll come running,” King said with a tired smile. It was refreshing at times to be reminded that whatever changed, some people—like Shirou—would always stay the same. The bulky vehicle pulled into the garage of King’s family home, the lights flickering on in welcome seeming so strangely harsh compared to the dark night and muted neon from which they had just come. 

As he got out of the car, King looked at his phone wistfully. How would the short brunette who coyly graced his lock-screen have dealt with tonight’s issue? Probably better. He was ever one for a peaceful solution, and occasionally King’s more…direct style was a point of contention between the two. Shirou, noticing his boss’ forlorn gaze, walked over, putting a hand on King’s shoulder.

“There’s another reason to take care of yourself right there,” Shirou said. “If you get hurt, you know he’ll beat me to a pulp, and I like my face the way it is, boss.” “You’re right,” King replied. “Couldn’t let something like that happen to my precious subordinate, could I?” The two chuckled, tensions momentarily lightened, and headed in to bed.

That next day, the irony of his choosing a fast car did not escape King—much as he himself could not escape the ever-present rush-hour traffic. Punctuality was not, strictly speaking, an issue—he knew that he would be able to reach his destination in time, and Grigori would have made sure that his packages would be safe and secure—but sitting in traffic, his 6’2” frame compressed into the driver’s seat of his car, was far from King’s ideal way to spend a day. He sighed, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. At least if he’d brought an escort he’d have company right now. This was going to be a long day.

Later that evening, he pulled off the highway, parking in the lot of a small apartment complex. All this time, just to get to the dead drop. King hadn’t worried about being on time, but as the light of day faded, people tended to be more wary—and the risks of his little diplomatic errand being seen as something more suspicious increased. He kept his eyes open as he approached the alley which led behind the building, relaxing slightly as he found it empty. Innocuous as it seemed, the strange, derelict refrigerator which for some reason was bolted to the ground near the dumpsters held his objective.

King withdrew the two small, identical black packages from the refrigerator, bending slightly to do so. Grigori’s knowledge of little hidey-holes like this all over Night City never ceased to amaze him. He chuckled slightly, unprepared for what would come next.

“Whass so funny, sonny?” A kind, weathered voice said, causing King to spin around in alarm. Behind King stood—well, leaned—an old man, his eyes squinting to try to make out King’s form in the dark. “Whoops, sorry, didn’ mean to ssstartle ya,” he rambled unsteadily. “I was jus’ comin’ back here to take care of sssome…business, ya know, and…” he gestured with his cane briefly, tucking it under his elbow as he turned to face the alley wall. “Speakin’ of which…”

“Sorry,” King said, making haste to leave the alley. “I’ll give you some privacy now.” “Oh, look all ya like, I ain’t ashamed,” slurred the old man, “Ol’ John’s still got it!” At this point, fairly certain that this…John was not a threat, King simply turned and strode out of the alley. It was time to get back to business, he thought, glancing at his phone to verify the address where he was headed. For once, it seemed he was in luck—Grigori had managed to locate the dead drop behind the same building which was his destination.

His good fortune did not seem to last, however. The door of the apartment to which he headed stood slightly open, the handle badly dented. Indeed, the only thing that seemed to be keeping the door closed was the thin chain which ran between it and the frame. Nonetheless, King supposed, it would be polite to knock. He set down his packages gingerly, patting the sides of his jacket to confirm that his Malorians remained in their shoulder holsters, ready to spring to the aid of their wielder, and listened for any trouble, his enhanced hearing scanning the apartment that lay beyond the door.

He knocked at the door gently, and for a few moments the persistent silence made him more tense. Before long, however, he heard footsteps approaching the door, the chain sliding back as the door swung open just slightly to reveal a young brown-haired woman in a suit. A young brown-haired woman in a suit who was pointing a pistol at him. King sighed, running his fingers through his hair. It was just one of those days, wasn’t it.

“Back off!” she said. “I’ve done my part already this month, and I’m sick of you people bothering me, and threatening me, and I know how to use this! And don’t even try telling me the safety is on, I know it’s off this time, I checked.” Well, at least she was in the mood to negotiate. 

King took a step back in the hopes of setting her at ease. “I assure you Ms. …Tokimiya, is it? I mean you no harm. I just came to make a delivery,” he said in a level tone, gesturing towards the packages which rested on the ground in front of the door. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind holstering your weapon, I think we should talk.”

“Alright, but I’m warning you, if you try any funny business…” Rem replied, her words trailing off in an attempt to sound threatening. “I’m sure,” King responded. “I’m just here to get something to a…mutual friend of ours. I was hoping to give it to her in person, but it seems I’m a bit late for that.”

“Who do you mean?” Rem asked, her eyes scanning the mysterious packages which had just arrived at her doorstep. King typically disliked doing business outside, but he figured it was better than being shot, so he gave Rem the answer she’d asked for. “Deuce…of the Surround Sound System? I was informed that the two of you were…acquainted,” he said, raising an eyebrow at the sudden tension that ran through Rem’s body at hearing that name. “And it seems my information was correct.”

“Well, she’s not here now,” Rem replied, looking furtively about to see if anybody might have heard. The hallway was deserted, but it didn’t hurt to check, King supposed. “But I suppose I could give these to her next time I see her,” she continued. “Anything I should know about these? They’re not going to explode or anything, are they?”

“Far from it,” King said. “They’re a little diplomatic offering from me. An apology. I might not open them and go rooting around, though,” he said a little too late, as Rem opened the first package, the blood quickly draining from her face as she registered what she was seeing. He kept talking in the interest of discouraging her from screaming, “their contents are somewhat sensitive.” 

“S-s-sensitive?!” Rem exclaimed. “There’s a—” “I know what’s in that package Ms. Tokimiya, and if you keep it closed it will keep just fine, don’t worry,” King quickly said. Phrases like “severed head” were best left implied. “Just a little business between Deuce and I.” At this point, Rem was past shock and onto anger. 

“So what, you expect me to keep—to keep _that_ in my apartment and just give it to Deuce? How do I know the other one _isn’t_ a bomb or something?” she hissed in a furious whisper. Before King could continue, she opened the second package, steeling herself for what she might find inside. The bemused look on her face was to be expected, King supposed.

“This—this is full of medical supplies,” Rem said. “Like I said, a peace offering,” King responded. “I’d appreciate it if you could get those to our friend,” he continued. “And when you do,” he added, in response to Rem’s nod, “if you could just tell her that I said the problem’s been solved? That would be great. Oh, and I’m sorry about the inconvenience. To you and her.” He turned to walk away, satisfied that the message had been passed. “What’s your name?” Rem called after him. “Who should I say is apologizing?”

He paused briefly, scanning his surroundings for anyone who might be too attentive a listener. The hallway remained empty. “King,” he called back as he headed down the stairs towards his car. Hopefully the traffic would be better by this time of night. It had been a long day.


	8. Opportunity (Nine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nine makes a delivery on Emina's behalf.

Night City is like a big, fancy supercomputer. It’s got a bunch of lights, it’s noisy, the parts are all super complicated, and everything is always happening at once. Even with a map, Nine manages to get himself lost half the time if he strays too far from midtown. Fortunately for him, most of his work isn’t too far out from places he knows. Today’s odd job is...a delivery. To someplace in a neighboring district that’s twice the size of his current home, Lower Arma.

“Don’t worry,” Emina assures Nine as she hands him a paper bag the size of his palm. “It’s only a few blocks into Shin-Togua. Nothing like last time, that’s for sure. I know you’ll manage.”

Nine holds the bag up to the pale light in Heaven to Hell’s back room. He raises a brow, then squints, then lowers the bag, still staring. “So what is it?”

Emina places a finger over her lips. “Night City survival tip: Never pry.”

“Funny to hear that comin’ from you,” Nine mutters. He tucks the bag securely into his jacket pocket. “Okay, hit me with the map.”

“I’ll hit you with my fist if you give me any more lip,” Emina says as she navigates through her phone with ease. “Aaand sent.” Nine’s phone vibrates twice. “Safe journey, Nine.”

Nine scratches his head. “Yeah, you too. I mean uh. Yeah. See you later!” He bolts out the back door before the heat rising to his face can visibly manifest. The spontaneous exit is awkward at best, but at this point it’s normal. It happens every. Damn. Time. Why does Emina have to be so damn pretty? And nice? And cool? Way cooler than him. Nine sighs into the relative quiet of the narrow street behind the bar and checks his phone before his embarrassment can swell any further. Emina was right, at least — the directions are straightforward and most of the roads are ones he knows. The map’s reassurance puts a spring in Nine’s step as he heads south.

The familiar paths are as noisy as always. Daytime drunks snore in alleys, obnoxious rich folks passing through blast music with lyrics that make zero sense, and some people just have really loud conversations. The sound of someone playing some sort of stringed instrument is somewhere in the mix, too. It’s nice to hear something organic every now and then instead of a synth. If only the player had more skill. But, they’ve got more talent than Nine — he’ll admit that any day.

Nine passes by the cluster of shops that make up Mini Concordia, not to be confused with Little Concordia, and finds himself at a bridge that will take him over a highway and into Shin-Togua. He can actually see one of the landmarks listed on his phone from here: a brick building painted a not-so-flattering shade of red. Take a right, head down two blocks, and he should bump into Emina’s client. Things are looking like they’ll be quick and easy. Nine strolls across the bridge while taking in the distant sight of the heart of Cybertown. That place is especially flashy and it makes his head hurt to even think about visiting, but glimpsing the statues and uniquely shaped buildings from afar is satisfying.

A little farther and Nine reaches the red building, which is apparently a spare parts shop. It seems to be up and running despite Carla’s Minimarket for Trash being the big name for this kind of stuff. Maybe the red attracts attention. Nine rounds the corner. The meetup spot should be just at the end of this street. Or alley, more like. Tiny apartments form an awkward box where the pavement ends, and the street is lined with identical apartments, entrances to paths that look like they can hardly fit a bicycle, and the occasional tiny storefront. It’s a little weird, but perfectly comfortable and a bit quieter than midtown even though it’s practically on the border between districts. Nine strolls along the road, looking from side to side for any signs of life. It seems like everyone’s either inside or out somewhere, save for a probably-unlicensed pharmacist snoozing at his storefront, an old lady running a handmade knife shop out of the ground floor of an apartment building, and a couple of stray cats strolling about.

Nine turns toward the pharmacy, then takes a couple of steps toward the knife shop, then walks backward a little, then paces back and forth across the street. Which one is the client? Are either of these two even the person he’s looking for? Why didn’t he ask for a description? Nine grabs his head as if suffering a headache, and growls to himself. “What the hell, man?”

“Nine?” The old lady calls to him as he walks by the knife shop once more.

Nine freezes mid-step and then skitters to the shop, where a wooden counter that only comes up to about his thigh sits between him and the old lady. “That’s me! I’m Nine. You Emina’s client person?”

The old lady gives him a look he isn’t sure how to feel about — something between amused and concerned. “Hmm… Yes, that would be me.” She kneels behind the counter, and Nine can hear some rummaging. Before long, she pops back up and sets a neatly wrapped package on the counter. It’s only slightly bigger than the one Nine has on him — which reminds him to hurry and take it out of his pocket. Nine fetches the package and sets it on the counter, then takes the old lady’s item.

“Pleasure doin’ business,” Nine says, securing the new goods in his pocket. “Well, see ya—”

“Just a moment, young man,” the old lady says.

“Huh?”

“Would you mind helping me with something?”

“Uh… I guess not. Whaddya need?”

The old lady nods, as if confirming something to herself. “On the roof of this building are some bowls. If you could save me the trouble…” She dips below the counter again, this time coming back up with a bag of...what  _ is  _ that? It looks like Kibble mixed with an especially bad time on the toilet. “I’d like for you to fill them. It seems the neighborhood cats haven’t had a decent meal today.”

Nine takes the bag. “Oh. Yeah, I can do that.”

The old lady nods again, this time seemingly in approval. “Much appreciated, Nine.”

Nine responds with a smile, then jumps up three stories with the help of the enhancements made to his legs, and, for once in his life, sticks the landing on the roof. Just like the old lady had said, there are several bowls. And a gray cat sprawled out beside them. They’re all under a makeshift structure made of scrap metal welded together; it’s probably to shield from the rain. Nine approaches with footsteps as soft as he can manage. The cat perks up, glaring daggers. “Easy there, pal…”

Nine counts three empty bowls, and three with some water in them. He crouches and opens the bag of supposed food, careful of each move as the cat judges him. Surprisingly, the mix smells pretty decent, and the cat clearly agrees. It stands on its paws and approaches as Nine distributes the food into the bowls. “Aaand that should do it.” Nine places his hands on his knees and prepares to stand, but a warm, soft sensation against his leg stops him from doing so. He looks down at the cat nuzzling him, mildly puzzled. Wasn’t this cat just silently threatening his life mere seconds ago? Talk about temperamental.

Nine pets the cat on the head without a second thought of whether it’ll bite his hand off, then stands up. “Mission accomplished. See ya around.” With that, he heads to the edge of the roof and hops to that of the next building. As it turns out, traveling by rooftop shaves a few minutes off his commute time. His footsteps crunch against weathered concrete and clang on top of rusty metal as he hops from building to building, cutting back to the bridge in no time. He jumps back to the ground, silently proud of his moment of agility. “Sweet Larma, here I co—”   
“Pardon me, young man.”

An unfamiliar voice causes Nine to turn around, to be met with a short, well-dressed man. Oh geez, is he a higher-up in a gang? Emina said not to get into it with anyone, especially not guys in suits. “Forgive my being nosey,” the man says. “But I couldn’t help but notice your kindness when you tended to that stray cat. Oh— dear me, my name is Sanzashi.”

What the hell is going on here? Something smells fishy. “Nine,” Nine says warily. “Uh…” He should watch his words… “So whaddya want?”

And out pops a huge hologram with all sorts of complicated details about what looks to be political mumbo jumbo. It’s not even election season. Is it? “I’d like to invite you to a conference,” Sanzashi says. “I am a representative of the Free Future Party. We’re looking to educate young people like yourself about Night City’s political sphere, and hopefully to receive your aid in changing this city for the better.” He dismisses the hologram. “That’s the gist of it, anyway. I’d be glad to give you more specifics.”

Nine scratches his head. “Sorry, but...I ain’t about all that business suit stuff. ‘Sides, I’m busy.”

“Fresh food will be served at the conference.” With one sentence, Sanzashi makes it clear he knows how to lure people in. Or at least people who like food, and Nine sure as hell qualifies. “Including meat.”

Nine scowls. On one hand, he doesn’t know squat about politics or who the heck he might be getting involved with, but on the other hand...meat. “I’m listening...but make it quick.”

Sanzashi chuckles. “Yes, of course.” He pulls out his phone and swipes with his thumb. “Searching, and...ah. I’ve dropped all the information about the conference to your phone for your records.”

Nine’s phone vibrates, prompting him to check his notifications. He taps a button to confirm the download of incoming files and immediately opens the first of three notes. “Event...Free Future...Speaker...Icelar…” Nine mumbles to himself, briefly skimming the information. “Woah, this is at the Diamond!? I’m too poor to even breathe in Regia!”

“Don’t you worry about that,” Sanzashi says calmly. “My number is in the files I just gave you. Reach out and I’ll set you up with clothing, transportation, and of course your event pass.”

There has to be some sort of catch, but Nine can try to figure out what it is later — probably with some help from someone who knows how this crap works. For now, he has to get back to Emina. “Thanks. I’m gonna get going then.”

“Safe travels,” Sanzashi bids. Nine gives a loose wave, then turns away. How is it that such a mundane delivery turned out so weird? Well, he thinks as he begins to cross the bridge, there’s always far weirder things in this city.


End file.
